


Blue

by ofaclassicalmind



Series: Colors [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But written before Season 8 Episode 5 aired, F/M, Fix-It, In which the author continues to explore the meaning of 'bittersweet' ending, So this is how I'm coping, Spoilers for Season 8, Still not over Season 8 Episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofaclassicalmind/pseuds/ofaclassicalmind
Summary: Another short, bittersweet fic that serves as the second installment of 'Green'. Based on events in Season 8 Episode 4. Jaime learns what it means to live.





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I was absolutely *floored* by the response I got for 'Green', and since Tumblr has completely depressed me, here I am, continuing this little diddy. Enjoy!
> 
> If you're new to the series, go read 'Green' first. It's a super quick, five to ten minute read. You'll need the backstory it provides.

The days he loves most are those spent on the beaches of the island, watching her as she chases the sapphire tide that laps at her little toes, her laugh so much like her mother’s.

_Brienne._

She is still the first thought in his head when he wakes every morning, and occasionally in the middle of the night, when her blue eyes are the only memory that saves him from vivid nightmares of dragonfire and wildfire.

“She knew,” Selwyn assures him as they sit in the sand, his own bright blue eyes following Cat as she runs along the beach. “She knew you loved her.”

Jaime nods numbly in response, though he doesn’t believe the man. After all, Selwyn hadn’t been there; hadn’t seen the grief in her breathtaking eyes as he’d said those words, or heard the pained way in which her sobs echoed through the yard as he rode through the gates.

He wasn’t a man to regret his actions, but more than anything, he wishes he had told her every day they’d been at Winterfell. Every time she had smiled, or gasped his name, or cut his meat... He had missed every opportunity, and it would always haunt him.

The ache lessens, however, as it always does, when she runs to him and throws her small, strong arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder, the sea breeze dancing with her long, straw-blonde locks as they caress his face.

* * *

They hold only parties for her as she grows older, never balls, and specifically for her nameday. She seems to enjoy the time that she spends with her friends, new and old, and Jaime always welcomes the distraction of greeting the lords and ladies who attend, thanking them for their gifts and for traveling so far.

After all, it’s a bittersweet day for him; the day he lost one love, but gained another.

Her first dance of the evening is always reserved for him, and with each passing year, he sees a little more of her mother in the way she holds herself; in the way she makes it a point to dance with _all_ the young men, so that everyone is included. No longer small enough to stand on his feet, she places a hand on his shoulder, and takes his only hand in hers as he leads her around the room, thanking the Seven for another year in her light as she smiles an all too familiar smile up at him.

He swallows hard, smiles back, and pulls her closer so she doesn’t see the tears that well in his eyes.

* * *

“She would be proud,” Sansa quietly says one year, taking in the festivities as Cat dances about the room, partnered by a young man with red hair and freckled features for the _third_ time that evening. “To see her, like this.”

Jaime allows a smirk to ghost across his lips.

“If only she could dance as gracefully as she parries blows.”

Sansa meets his eyes, wearing a smirk to match his own.

Her red hair is now streaked with silver, and as she’s aged, her resemblance to her mother has only sharpened. It’s almost poetic, Jaime muses, that Lady Stark has become one of his daughter’s most steadfast protectors.

“Papa...” he hears Cat call his attention, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

When he turns to her, he notices the way she has woven her arm through the freckled lad’s long, lanky one, and feels a blunt dagger pierce his gut at the sight.

“This is Lord Brynden Tully,” she announces with a forced confidence he sees through instantly. “Lord Brynden, my father, Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime sees the young man hold out his left hand rather than his right, and the gesture surprises him with its thoughtfulness. He takes the offered hand, and as he clasps it, he glances at Sansa, who simply gives him a knowing smile before bowing her head, excusing herself.

An hour later, and somehow he’s been politely talked into visiting the Riverlands in the next year by a begrudging Lord Edmure and ecstatic Lady Roslyn, who had only been invited at Sansa’s request. The woman is still far too clever for her own good.

Jaime watches his little girl, now a young woman, laugh with young Brynden as they engage in a riveting conversation, and he is reminded of a night long ago, when the dead had finally remained that way and the wine had flowed endlessly.

Warmth suddenly pools beneath his eyes, and he turns away from the sight, unable to endure it any longer.

 _You hopeless fool_ , he thinks. _Did you truly believe you’d get to keep her forever?_

For the first time in years, tears scorch his pillow as he tries to succumb to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

“You never believed me, boy,” Selwyn says breathily, his strength waning.

Jaime looks up in confusion from where he sits beside the bed, his left hand clutching that of the only father he’s ever truly known.

“What do you mean?”

With effort, Selwyn releases Jaime’s hand, pointing to a chest on the table across the room. Wordlessly understanding, Jaime crosses to the object, awkwardly picking it up and bringing it to rest on the bed beside the dying man, the lid open and waiting.

It takes a moment, but Selwyn retrieves something from the bottom; a rolled up piece of parchment, yellowed even further with age, a scarlet ribbon tied around it. He slips the ribbon off and unfurls the paper, skimming its contents.

“Read it,” he murmurs after a few seconds, holding it out to Jaime, who takes it without question.

Rather than return to the chair, Jaime sits beside him on the bed, curious.

_My dear father,_

_The battle in the North is won, and having been released from Lady Sansa’s service, I am eager to return to you, and to Tarth. You must understand that I will not be traveling alone; indeed, I do not believe I can ever rid myself of the new passenger I intend to bring with me on this journey and, soon enough, into the world._

_Jaime has returned south to aid in the last war, I’m sure of it, but I do not know to what end, or if he will live. If he does, and he comes to you before we do, please, do not send him away. He has loved me more than anyone in this world, save for you, and deserves the chance to meet his child and be a father._

_Rest assured that we will arrive at the harbor within a month of you reading this letter. I look forward to seeing the island, and have missed you with all my heart._

_Your little star,_

_Brienne_

He nearly jumps when the ink smears of its own volition, only to realize he is crying; that she _had_ known he loved her, though he had never said the words...

A steady hand on his forearm, above his stump, gives him comfort, and he meets those astonishingly blue eyes one last time.

At the funeral, Cat wears her armor instead of a dress, and Jaime feels her slip her strong, calloused fingers into his own as Lord Selwyn is sent into the Narrow Sea.

* * *

It isn’t a large wedding, but there are plenty of people who love both the bride and groom filling the small sept.

He escorts Catelyn down the aisle toward the steps between the statues of the Mother and Father, and she certainly is a thing of beauty; her long blonde hair is in her favorite braid, her sapphire blue dress only accentuating the white and gold bridecloak Sansa had commissioned for her at his request.

But her smile when she sees Lord Brynden waiting for her is what she wears best.

She turns to him as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and wraps her arms tight around his waist, her shorter frame allowing him to rest his chin on her head.

“I’ll always be yours, Papa,” she whispers so only he can hear. “Never forget that.”

Tears instantly spring to his eyes at the echo of words he had said so long ago, and he smiles at her when she pulls away, unashamed of the way the streams trickle down his face as she reaches out to wipe them away. Jaime looks over her shoulder at Lord Brynden, bowing his head in consent.

He observes the ritual silently, standing next to Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, but he knows whom he would rather be standing beside on this special day.

As Cat says the words, her green eyes shining and full of love for the man in front of her, Jaime is forced to fight back tears once more at the thought that it was something he never had the chance to do for the incredible woman he had known. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he feels Arya unceremoniously tug on his arm with more strength than a woman of forty-five years should possess, pulling his ear down toward her mouth.

“You knighted her, you idiot,” she mutters. “That was enough. Stop moping before you make us all miserable.”

He opens his eyes to see the Stark women raising their eyebrows at him, understanding smirks on their faces. Chuckling low in his throat, he has to admit that for him and Brienne, that night had indeed been more than adequate.

* * *

“Take it,” he softly commands, holding the sword out to her. “It’s meant for battle, not decoration.”

Cat slowly reaches out and grabs the pommel, examining the lion’s head.

“Are you sure?” she whispers, fixing him with an apprehensive stare.

“She would want you to carry it,” he tells her. “If you are to defend the people you love in this war, you need a sword worthy of such a task.”

She nods after a moment, sheathing it in the same belt her mother had worn as her own son crashes into the room, leaping onto the bed, his little sister teetering in behind him. Before she makes it to the bed, Jaime playfully growls at her and scoops the toddler up, much to her delight. He hears Cat sigh resignedly, giving him a wary smile.

“You’re sure you’ll be able to handle them?” she asks.

He turns and winks at Selwyn, who collapses on the bed in a fit of giggles, then meets little Brienne’s gorgeous blue eyes, rubbing his nose against her own. For the first time in years, he feels no sadness and no grief at the thought of her; only gratitude and love for the woman who had given him so much more than he had ever deserved.

“Papa...?” Cat presses.

He gives her a smug smile, tightening his hold on his granddaughter.  

“I’m strong enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> There will likely be a third and final installment in this series by tomorrow night.


End file.
